an odd thing for a young man to say. ‘Why is that?’
He shrugged his shoulders; looked at her with the most remarkable blue eyes. ‘It’s more romantic,’ he admitted softly. ‘Sexier, don’t you think?’ He grinned again; a cheeky, slightly naughty grin. Her heart leapt.
‘Well, I wouldn’t know.’ She could feel her face flushing. (Was he flirting with her? Right here on her own doorstep?) Her eyes met his. ‘No one’s ever done that sort of thing for me.’
‘No!’ He seemed genuinely shocked to hear it. ‘That’s criminal!’
‘Criminal, maybe, but also true.’
He paused, looking at her.
She shifted, suddenly self-conscious. ‘Well, anyway …’
‘But don’t you agree? I mean, not that I’ve ever done it myself.’ His voice faded and to her surprise, he coloured slightly. ‘I guess I’ve never been inspired by anyone. It’s a more personal gesture, though … don’t you think?’
‘It sounds lovely,’ she conceded.
They stood a moment.
‘I’m keeping you.’
‘No, no, it’s all right.’
‘Well,’ he backed slowly down the steps, ‘thanks very much. I really appreciate you looking after those.’
‘My pleasure.’
He tipped his cap at her and headed to his van.
Amy closed the door. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had spoken to her in that way. It stirred up a nostalgic longing tinged by a surge of almost adolescent excitement. Putting the flowers on the hall table, she gazed at her reflection in the mirror. Maybe her old self hadn’t disappeared entirely; maybe somewhere below the surface she was still visible: a naughty, sexy, hopeful woman, still capable of inspiring desire.
‘Or not,’ she thought, sighing heavily.
Who was she kidding? How could she inspire anyone?
She was about to climb upstairs and retreat again to her bedroom, when the doorbell rang a second time.
She opened it and there was the young flower-delivery man again.
He was smiling shyly, holding the most perfect single white long-stemmed rose she’d ever seen.
‘Oh!’
‘I think you’re right,’ he blushed, handing it to her. ‘One isn’t enough – you deserve a whole armful of white roses!’
Then he bounded off the front step.
As he headed back to the van he turned.
‘I hope your baby is as beautiful as you are!’ he called.
For the first time in her life, Amy Mortimer was speechless.
Hughie climbed into the front seat of the van next to Henry, breathless with exhilaration.
‘I think that went rather well!’ he beamed.
‘Yeeeeessss,’ Henry was looking in the rear-view mirror.
Something wasn’t quite right.
The woman was still standing in the doorway.
There was something odd about the way she was holding on to the door frame.
Suddenly she doubled over, clutching her stomach.
The white rose fell to the ground.
‘Oh, dear,’ Henry sighed, ‘I think we have a problem.’
Leticia lay in her bed, immobile, the curtains of her bedroom drawn against the late-morning light. Her limbs felt like cement; thick, inflated like a Henry Moore sculpture. She moved her head to one side; it throbbed.
Outside, London had roused itself; bathed, dressed, breakfasted and thrust itself forward once more unto the breach. But inside her narrow bedroom, Leticia dreamed of night. It wasn’t that she longed for more sleep. Sleep didn’t matter. But she pined for the hours of darkness when finally the world outside matched her interior landscape.
It was time to go to work. Time to get up.
But what was the point?
More rich women, more designs, more work, more gowns, more money, more women … on and on and on it went without purpose or meaning. All the things she’d believed in so passionately, suddenly lost their sweetness, leaving only the dry dust of habit and duty behind.
She turned on her back.
What if Leo died? What would she have in her life that was lasting and important?
Nothing.
What was worse is that she worked very long and hard at having nothing. She took a great deal of care to have sex with men she didn’t love. She spent all her time making a shop which catered to women she didn’t rate. Even her name was false.
When Leo did die, which would happen some day, she would be alone.
Leticia closed her eyes.
And then there was Hughie. The whole scene had been so messy. Instead of walking away feeling free, she’d run away, exposed and unravelled. Did she love him? He was just a kid. Or was it that any tenderness was unfamiliar to her now?
It wasn’t a comforting train of thought. In fact, it was so discomfiting that Leticia dragged herself out of bed, got dressed and went to the shop, just to get away from her own morbid reflections.
Only when she arrived, the electricity wasn’t working.
She rang the company. Some nonsense about her not paying the bill. She tried to give them a debit card over the phone. The payment was denied.
She rang the bank. A man in deepest India explained that even her overdraft was overdrawn. She argued and swore. He remained irritatingly calm.
It was only when she hung up and sat down, in the dark, fuming, that she noticed something else.
The dripping noise was back.
Professional Massagers of the Female Ego at Large (Part Two)
Henry took Hughie to an elegant café in Sloane Square. They sat down and ordered a couple of coffees.
‘That was unusual,’ Hughie said after a while.
‘Hummm.’
They both sipped their coffee.
‘A
